


Left Behind

by Saziikins



Series: Journeys [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade looks so sad throughout Sherlock series three. It's been really bothering me lately, so this is a bit of a 'fix-it' on Sherlock's behalf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> There are hints at an implied future romance but mostly it's a friendship, I think. This probably isn't all that flattering about John either...

It was masterful really. A skill Sherlock wished he’d learned. How to be in a room and remain invisible. How to be hidden in plain sight. How to be ever-present and yet able to slip out without anyone ever realising you were there or noticing you were gone.

Greg Lestrade stood by the window of 221B, a drink in one hand, interacting, laughing, smiling, open to conversation but never leading it.

He was dressed as he always was, in those black trousers and ridiculous heavy black shoes. His shirt was white, unbuttoned at the top, complemented with a black jacket and a watch on his left wrist, the glass scratched.

He had a place among them, but he didn’t know where it was. All of them, these seven, were connected by one person: Sherlock. There was John, his best friend, and then John’s wife and child, now under Sherlock’s protection too, for as long as he was alive.

Molly, so ever-reliable, who mattered more than anyone had ever known. Mrs Hudson, Sherlock’s second mother, who had been through more traumas in her life than Sherlock fully appreciated. And that just left the other: Greg Lestrade.

For 12 months, or perhaps more, he smiled without it reaching his eyes. He looked sad, wistful on happy occasions, including today. There was Molly, bouncing baby Emma on her lap, a doting Godmother. Sherlock, Godfather, of course. Mrs Hudson spoke to Mary about teething. All of them had a role in Emma’s life and in her christening today. Except him. Except Greg Lestrade.

He poured another glass of champagne for Molly and he shook Emma’s tiny hand and he talked about the occasion and how delicious Mrs Hudson’s sandwiches were.

But unnoticed he remained. A fixture on the wall. A shadow with no one there to create it. He nodded in the right places, hummed agreement, let out a pleasant laugh and handed around the tray of cakes.

They spoke to him, of course they did, full of pleasantries, mundane small talk. Not because he was difficult to converse with. He wasn’t. But they didn’t know him, not at all. They never even asked.

Children, he had two of his own, that Sherlock knew. As he glanced around, he wondered if any of these others did. If any of them had ever bothered to ask. If any of them had even considered that Greg Lestrade had a life outside of the Metropolitan Police.

It was getting dark. Emma was asleep in Mary’s arms, and John stood at her side, gazing down at their child as they talked. Molly was helping Mrs Hudson take the trays back down to her flat, and Sherlock sat in his chair, leaning forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

Greg Lestrade was stood by the sink, washing the glasses up. Sherlock watched. He’d drift away, Sherlock thought. Leave with barely a goodbye, out of the building and down towards the underground station. He’d get on the tube to his flat in… well, Sherlock didn’t know where exactly his flat was.

Greg dried the glasses and Molly sat by Sherlock’s chair, trying to engage him in conversation about Bart’s and forensics and bodies. But it was passing him by as he watched the man wave a goodbye which everyone returned but no one took much notice of.

Sherlock frowned, standing up. “Excuse me,” he said, walking past them all and out of the open door. The front door to the building closed and Sherlock rushed down the stairs, taking two at a time.

Greg was lighting up a cigarette as he walked down the street, shoulders slumped, his footsteps heavy on the pavement. Sherlock quickly checked the road for cars and ran across it. Greg turned his head to look at him and Sherlock halted, stood by a lamppost, nothing to say to him, no explanation to give.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “You know, if you’re that sick of everyone’s company you can just tell them to leave,” he pointed out. “Not like you to stick to social niceties.”

“Not like you to encourage someone not to follow social niceties,” Sherlock pointed out, taking three steps towards him before stopping again. “You engage in them better than any of us.”

The man’s eyes narrowed and he took a long drag of his cigarette. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he finally said, turning and beginning to trudge towards the station.

“Hang on,” Sherlock called out, jogging a few paces to catch up with him.

Greg stopped still, dropping his cigarette on the ground and stamping it out. “What now?” he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets, guarded and defensive.

“You didn’t say if you had any cases,” Sherlock said, not knowing what else to reply.

A flicker of something, anger, frustration, drifted over Greg’s face before he neutralised it. “I don’t,” he said. “That everything?”

They looked back towards Baker Street as Molly, Mary and John left, Mary carrying little Emma as they waved goodbye to Mrs Hudson as they went. They all piled into John’s car and Sherlock watched as they drove off.

“Nice service today,” Greg finally said. “You did good today. Your speech. Better than the wedding one.”

“John wrote it.”

“Still. It was… delivered well. I need to go, Sherlock, is there something you want?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “Something I want?” he repeated dumbly.

“Yeah.”

“No. Nothing.”

Greg nodded his head once and went to turn away again. Sherlock grasped his arm, perhaps a little tighter than he intended. Greg’s jaw tightened. “Out with it,” he muttered.

Sherlock stared at him, his throat dry, his fingers still pressing into Greg’s arm. Had he ever touched him before? Greg had touched him, plenty of times, but Sherlock had never reached for him.

No wonder he looked pained. He gave and gave, and everyone took and no one stopped for a moment to see the lines around his eyes and the way he’d aged. They all just accepted his presence, saw him there, constant, trustworthy, reliable. Sherlock wondered if being all those things was as exhausting as being the glue to hold their unusual group of people together.

Only Greg Lestrade was one of them, but he seemed not to know it. When it came down to it, he was Sherlock’s and Sherlock’s alone.

“Was there something you wanted?” Sherlock asked. “Was there anything I could do for you?”

Greg frowned. “No,” he said, beginning to tug his arm back. “C’mon, can you hurry up and tell me what it is, rather than talking in riddles? I’ve got work tomorrow.”

Sherlock let him go, his arms dropping to his sides. “Come back into the flat,” he said.

“Why?”

In truth, Sherlock didn’t know, he just needed him to stay put until he’d found the words. Though he wasn’t convinced he’d ever find them.

Greg sighed. “Sherlock. You see John all the time, don’t you? The christening doesn’t change anything. Now, off you run, go and do your experiments and write your blog or something, and I’ll see you good and early at the Yard tomorrow to see if I can offer you something, how about that?”

“No.”

Greg paused. “What? No?”

“That’s what I said. No.”

Greg frowned at him. “Right,” he muttered. “Look, I’m gonna-”

“-We’re not so different,” Sherlock cut him off. “You and I.”

“Um. Right. If you say so.”

“You think that you don’t matter,” Sherlock said. “You think that if you didn’t exist then nothing would change. That it would stay the same, well you’re wrong.”

“Sherlock, I don’t really…” Greg pulled a face. “I really just want to go home.”

“For goodness sake, will you give me a minute?” Sherlock snapped. “I’m trying to tell you that you’re important and that you matter and that I see you looking so sad all the time and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do or say. And no one else notices, and I’m not sure if that’s because you’re a brilliant actor or because they don’t observe anything, despite everything I’ve taught them. And the fact is, if you disappeared, maybe they wouldn’t really notice a difference at first, but I would.”

Greg was tense. His lips a thin line, his hands still tucked in his pockets. “Are you done?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not even close to done,” he said. “You brought me back from my very worst every time, so I’m trying to do it for you now.”

“Very worst?” Greg echoed. “Sherlock. No. I’m fine.”

“You’re-”

Greg reached out to him and clasped his shoulder. “Look me in the eye, Sherlock,” he said. “You don’t need me anymore, because you’re a bloody good man, alright? You’ve got friends. You’ve got a brilliant brain. And I’m proud that I played some part in that. But there’s a time to let it go, and I’m not going to outstay my welcome.”

“Outstay your welcome? Who said you were-”

“-Nobody said anything. They didn’t have to.”

“But what about me?” Sherlock pressed. “Do you really think I’ll be better off without you?”

“I’m not planning on going anywhere. I’m still at the Yard, I’m still-”

“-But you’re not present. Why do you just sit back and watch and do nothing and…”

“Observe?” Greg finished for him.

Sherlock nodded. “What do you see when you watch?”

“A group of people who have no one if they don’t have each other.”

“And where do you fit into that?” Sherlock asked.

Greg stayed silent. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he eventually murmured.

“You matter,” Sherlock insisted again, staying close on his heels as he began to walk away. “Will you just stop and talk to me about this?”

“I don’t know exactly what we’re talking about!” Greg snapped, turning round to face him. “Are we talking about how you left for two years and came back and skipped in as though everything was hunky dory? Are we talking about John and Mary getting married? Having a kid? Are we talking about you killing a man and just getting a slap round the ear for it? What exactly do you want from me?”

“You look sad.”

“Well so do you,” Greg said tightly. “You think I haven’t noticed? So God help me, Sherlock. Once upon a time, I knew what to do to help you, but I sit and watch and do you even want to know what I see?”

“What?” Sherlock frowned. “What exactly do you see?”

“I see a man getting lost in his head while his so-called best friend sits there and lets it happen. I see John abandon you until you wind up taking drugs again. I see John stay with a wife who tried to kill you. I see John go with you, watch you kill a man and act as though it’s nothing. I see John every fucking week act as though you’re God’s gift to humanity, and yet if you mess up, if you do one little thing wrong, he’s onto you and angry at you and storming off. And every sodding time, I think ‘no, John, you’re doing it all wrong’. Because if he understood how much you loved him then… then he wouldn’t waste it. He wouldn’t be so… so quick to just leave.”

Sherlock stared at him. Greg took a quick breath and turned around, leaving him stood there, until Greg was almost completely out of sight. Sherlock fished his phone out of his pocket and called him. Greg stopped in his tracks. He turned around to face Sherlock, holding the phone to his ear. “What?” he asked.

“I don’t love John,” Sherlock said. “Not like you implied. Come back here.”

“No.”

“Lestrade.”

“Greg.”

Sherlock frowned. “Greg,” he repeated. “Come back here.”

“For what?”

“Just. Do it, will you?”

He heard Greg’s sigh before he hung up the phone and walked back towards him. “Look, I’m really tired of all this talking,” Greg said as he approached him. “This doesn’t solve anything.”

“You think you’ve been left behind,” Sherlock said. “I needed you to know you were wrong. Only I didn’t know. I didn’t see it.”

“See what?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t see you. I didn’t see what it meant when you brought the whole of the police force to Baker Street when I asked you for help. I didn’t see what it meant when you spent nine hours with me working on a best man speech-”

“-Some good that ended up to be,” Greg muttered.

“I didn’t see why you were sad, I only knew that you were.”

“And now what?” Greg asked. “What now?”

“You have a place with us,” Sherlock said to him, taking a step closer. “You belong within our group. You have a place, do you see that?” He reached out and took hold of Greg’s wrist, wrapping his hands around it, bringing his hand up until he rested on the centre on Sherlock’s chest. “You have a place.”

He kept his eyes fixed on Greg’s face, through the subtle shifts in his expression, the bewilderment, the anger, the annoyance. The way it settled on resignation.

“No idea what you’re trying to say,” Greg finally said.

Sherlock managed a faint smile. “I never claimed conversations like these were one of my strengths.”

“No. True.” Greg bit his bottom lip, his eyes flicking to where his hand was still resting to Sherlock’s chest. He looked back at Sherlock’s face, dropping his hand down. “So, go on then. Where exactly is my place?”

“The same place it’s always been,” Sherlock replied. He tilted his head towards 221. “Come back inside,” he said. “It’s getting cold.”

“That’s not my place. That’s yours and John’s place.”

Sherlock frowned. “It’s our place,” he said. “All of us.” He stepped forward. “You had a key from day one,” he reminded him. “Do you really think you’ve become so unnecessary to me?”

Greg glanced at him. “Haven’t I?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “More necessary than ever,” he said softly. “Come inside.”

Greg paused for a moment. “And if I do?” he asked. “What happens then?”

“Well, then I just have to show you how much you matter, don’t I?”

They shared a drawn out pause and then Greg reached into his pocket, taking out his packet of cigarettes.

“Those things will kill you,” Sherlock said, repeating the first words he ever said to him.

A slow smile spread over Greg’s face. He took one cigarette out and lit it, holding it out to Sherlock to take the first proper drag. He held his arm out and draped it over Sherlock’s shoulders as they shared it between them, staring across at 221.

“I care about you,” Sherlock muttered after a while. “If that wasn’t clear before.”

Greg nodded, dropping the cigarette onto the floor. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I care about you too, you daft sod.”

And with a soft smile, Sherlock led him back into 221B.


End file.
